Baghdad , Iraq -LRB- CNN -RRB- -- Abu Ali is 58 years old . He could be 78 , his beard gray , body frail and his face a leathery road map that traces the unimaginable horrors his family has endured . It is a face that reflects a visceral human portrait of the grinding violence in Iraq and the toll it has taken on ordinary civilians .

The al-Jibouri family are not politicians , nor insurgents , nor religious radicals . They are -- or used to be -- a family of humble watermelon sellers , plying their trade with plump fruit from Mosul in their stall , barely 50 meters from their home in Baghdad .

Their descent into hell began on July 23 , 2007 . Their son Ali -- 19 and a week away from his wedding -- was working on the family stall when one of Baghdad 's ubiquitous car bombs targeted the market area . He was killed instantly .

`` I was a week away from marrying him off , '' Abu Ali sobs . `` Instead I buried him . ''

Abu Ali does n't stop crying the entire time we are with the family .

Eight thousand Iraqis died last year , according to the U.N. Iraq Body Count lists 640 civilian deaths so far in January . But numbers are anonymous and cold : to visit the al-Jibouri family is to see and feel and be suffocated by the human reality of those statistics .

As the politicians play politics , and the insurgents deal in death , it is people like this who suffer the fallout , as they always do in war .

Ali 's devastated fiance Duaa later married Ali 's brother Alaa . Together they had three children : a son , also called Ali , now aged three , and daughters Rukkaya , four , and Narjis , eight months .

In July last year the family was preparing for their annual pilgrimage to the holy city of Najaf , where Ali is buried , to honor his memory . It was July 20 , a Saturday , and Alaa and brother Abbas were on duty at the water melon stand .

Everyone heard the bomb inside the family home . It rocked the walls and shook the ground .

Alaa , 23 , and Abbas , 17 , were blown to pieces , along with several other people . Today , the walls by the old watermelon stand are scarred by shrapnel .

Abu Ali has now lost all three sons . `` No one will call me dad anymore , '' he wails .

The funeral was well attended : hundreds of neighbors and friends turned out , disbelieving what had happened to this family . Chanting and wailing mourners carried the coffins aloft to begin Alaa and Abbas 's journey to Najaf to lie alongside Ali .

The children asked daily where their father was . Abu Ali and his wife , Umm Ali , at first could n't face telling them the truth , instead saying he 'd gone to Mosul for more watermelons . Eventually , of course , they had to explain that he , and their uncle , were dead .

`` We tell them he has gone to paradise and is watching over them , but Ali especially can not comprehend , '' says Abu Ali . `` When we say his father is in paradise , he just cries . ''

Ali is clearly a traumatized boy . His sister seems happy enough , playing on a sofa with her cousin and a tattered doll . Alaa 's other child , the baby daughter Narjis , was just a few weeks old when her father died . She smiles at me and touches my watch , enthralled by the shiny wristband and oblivious to her forlorn circumstances .

Then Rukkaya surprises us by suddenly counting to 10 in English . We applaud her and her face lights up with pride . She counts again , and then once more . The smiles her performance brings are a rare event in this home . Ali sits nearby , his head dipping and swaying , as it 's done ever since his father died .

The family has a fourth son , Ammar , but after the second explosion he fell apart emotionally and was certain that one day he too would die . And then he vanished , simply disappeared . The family has n't seen or heard from him since .

Alaa 's widow , Duaa , still lives with the family , or what remains of it . She hides in the kitchen during our visit , unwilling to speak about what the two car bombs took from her .

Abu Ali continues to weep and lament the family 's bleak future . The watermelon stand was the family 's only income . They are seven months behind on the rent for their tiny three-room house on a muddy side street . Six people are crammed into the home , Abu Ali and Umm Ali , and Alaa 's widow and three children .

`` It 's like we are living in a dark place , '' says the grieving mother , Umm Ali . `` What does one do when you lose your children ? We do n't go out , we keep our door closed . We want to leave and not stay in this country , but we ca n't afford it . ''

`` They were our bread winners , '' says Abu Ali . `` They supported us , now I have no income , I have to now sell belongings . I have n't paid the rent for seven months .

`` It 's hard . I think of committing suicide , but what would happen to the children ? If an official loses a son , all the media covers it and the family is looked after . I have lost three sons and the fourth fled and no one cares about us . ''

We leave Abu Ali and Umm Ali and the grandchildren they now raise and they thank us for telling their story to the world . We have no words , nothing that could possibly comfort or offer promise . Just gratitude for their courage in trying to get others outside this place to maybe understand the human cost of what goes on here .

Tomorrow , or the next day , there are sure to be more bombs or bullets sending more families down the tortuous road being navigated by Abu Ali .

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The humble al-Jibouri family 's descent into hell began on July 23 , 2007

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Abu Ali was a week away from marrying off his son , but buried him instead

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In July last year , he lost two more sons to a bomb blast in Najaf

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Abu Ali does n't stop crying the entire time CNN reporters are with the family